The Next Best Thing

by Jennifer Weiner

  Big Dave’s hair might have said “rock star,” but his clothes were strictly prep school. That morning he was arrayed in flat-front khakis, lace-up oxfords, a button-down shirt striped cream and lime with his monogram—DAL—on the cuffs, and a Lilly Pulitzer tie in an eye-watering pattern of hot pink and tangerine. He had a booming laugh and a winning smile, both of which, I would come to learn, he deployed regularly. The world delighted Big Dave, and why shouldn’t it? I knew, from my reading, that Big Dave, at thirty-six, was rich enough to own five sports cars, one for each workday, and a sprawling glass box of a house that was perched in the Hollywood Hills, with a swimming pool and a hot tub and a sauna, a home gym and a screening room that sat twelve.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Big Dave said, taking my hand. “Where are you from, Boston? I’m hearing Boston. You ever go to camp in the Berkshires? You look like a girl I knew once. Stacey Saunders? Played volleyball? Not you, obviously, but any relation?”

  I shook my head, looking around as Dave helped himself to a Fresca and the little dog—Pocket—crunched up her treat, licked her lips, then began chewing on a cylinder of red rubber. The office, up on the eighth floor overlooking Alameda Avenue, was large and sunny, with big windows that let in plenty of light. It was equipped with couches and chairs and beigey-gray carpet that had most likely come from some office supply warehouse. The desks and bookshelves and telephones had probably been there before the Daves arrived and would remain after they left. But the furniture was the only thing signaling that we were in a place where work was expected to happen. Except for the couches and carpets, their office was a romper room, a ten-year-old boy’s dream, if the ten-year-old boy had expensive taste and an unlimited budget. A soapbox racer painted red and white was parked against one wall. On a table beside it was a half-assembled four-foot-high Death Star made of LEGOs, alongside a variety of diagrams and Internet-procured cheat sheets. A Nerf basketball hoop was affixed to the back of the door, a felt golf green was rolled out along one wall, a giant tank filled with bright fish had been set between the two desks, and there was an old-school pinball machine underneath the window.

  “Do you play?” Dave asked.

  I shook my head. “Ms. Pac-Man was my game.”

  “Ooh, good one.” He settled on a white leather sofa, underneath a row of movie posters—one for King Kong, another for Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, and a third with Tura Satana, of Russ Meyer fame, bursting out of her halter top as she confronted some unseen foe. The pièce de résistance, displayed in a Lucite box in the corner, was a gold wheelchair that it took me a moment to recognize as the one Woody Harrelson had used when he’d played the titular character in The People vs. Larry Flynt.

  “Affectation,” said Big Dave, following my gaze. The back door swung open, the little dog raised her head and gave a cheerful yip, and a man entered the room, his hands working the wheels of a far less glamorous chair than the one in the see-through box.

  “Screw you,” said the man in the wheelchair. He was boyishly handsome, with thick brown hair and mild hazel eyes, and he spoke to his partner with familiar affection. “I’m not the one who bought the Batmobile.”

  “You see?” asked Big Dave, arranging his features in a hangdog expression. “You see how he treats me? Besides,” he went on, turning back toward the man I assumed was his partner, “I didn’t buy the Batmobile. I leased it for my birthday. How many times am I going to turn thirty-five?”

  “Bought. Leased. You’re splitting hairs,” said the man in the wheelchair—the other Dave, I presumed. Little Dave. “All I know is that when you look up entitlement on Wikipedia, there’s a picture of you. In the Batmobile.”

  “I didn’t actually drive it,” Big Dave grumbled.

  “Oh, well, in that case, I take it all back.”

  “Are you getting this?” Big Dave asked again, raking his fingers through his hair as he turned to me. “You see what I put up with?”

  “Big white guy can’t catch a break,” I said . . . which turned out to be precisely the right thing to say. Both Daves laughed, Big Dave loudly, Little Dave with a dry, quiet heh-heh-heh. The dog looked from one Dave to the other, her bright black-olive eyes following each beat of the conversation, one ear erect, the other folded and floppy.

  “Calling us out on our privilege,” said Big Dave. “I like her already.”

  “I’m Ruth Saunders,” I said after Little Dave had wheeled toward me, his hand extended. I had a bad moment, wondering what to do, before bending awkwardly from the waist and taking his hand, which was warm and dry and very strong.

  Little Dave’s attire was as unremarkable as his partner was flamboyant. He wore jeans, pale-blue loose-fitting Levi’s, the kind that would never go out of style because they’d never been quite in style, a Polo shirt in bluish-gray, and a pair of New Balance running shoes, which struck me as either deliberately ironic or a cruel joke: running shoes for a man who couldn’t walk. Maybe they were comfortable, I thought, and then wondered whether he could feel his feet. If I couldn’t feel my own, I decided that I’d wear the least comfortable, most beautiful shoes I could borrow from my grandmother—delicate, strappy stilettos with heels high enough to preclude normal walking. If I was going to be stuck in a wheelchair, at least I’d look good sitting there.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” said Little Dave. “I like your hat.”

  “Affectation,” I said, and he smiled. His hair was cut short and combed in a way that wasn’t trying too hard to hide his small bald spot. He had a neatly trimmed beard and gold wire-rimmed glasses and a watch on a leather band on his left wrist. He could have been a suburban algebra teacher, a dad who’d coach youth soccer on the weekends, pick up paper towels and chicken breasts on his way home from work, and not complain when his wife instituted Meatless Mondays. I liked him immediately.

  “Is Pocket actually a therapy dog?” I’d asked. I’d seen people in wheelchairs with dogs, but I’d never seen one quite so small.

  Dave, frowning, shook his head and spoke to his partner. “I wish you’d stop telling people that. It sets up false expectations.”

  Big Dave grimaced. “What, like that the dog’s actually going to do something useful?”

  “She does things.” Little Dave snapped his fingers, and the dog, instantly alert, bounded out of her bed. “Pocket, shake.” She sat down and gravely extended her paw to me. I took it and shook it. “Pocket, play dead,” said Little Dave. The dog lurched forward one step, then two, and then collapsed on her side with a realistic shudder, letting her tongue flop out of the corner of her mouth. I smiled and Big Dave said, “Pocket, executive!” The dog got up, trotted over to a stack of scripts piled in the corner, and lifted her leg as if she was going to pee. I applauded.

  “I taught her that one,” said Big Dave. Little Dave set his hands on the wheels again and rolled quietly behind one of the desks in the outer office, with the dog’s eyes following his every motion. There he picked up what looked like a black plastic bullhorn and tossed it to his partner.

  “What’s that?” I asked, the way I guessed I was supposed to.

  “Radar gun,” said Big Dave, who had arranged himself underneath a poster for Buck Rogers and crossed his long legs.

  “For what? Do you clock each other’s pitches?”

  “Pitches, land speed, whatever. Little Dave once achieved eight miles an hour on his way to the bathroom. Sometimes we just sit outside on the median on Ventura and point it at people.”

  “That’s when there’s nothing good on cable,” Little Dave said.

  Big Dave put down the radar gun, picked up a light saber from a basket next to the couch, and tossed it from hand to hand. “So. Can I ask a personal question?”

  I nodded, wondering whether his inquiry was going to concern my appearance or my work history.

  He touched his own cheek. “Can you tell me about . . .”

  “Ah. Well, I should start by saying, ‘You should see the other guy.’” The jok
e—one I’d used a few times before—worked. Both Daves smiled. “I was in a car accident when I was a kid. My parents hit a patch of ice and flipped their car.”

  “Oh, no,” said Big Dave. He leaned forward to pat my arm. “Oh, honey, that’s terrible.”

  I looked at Little Dave in his wheelchair and wondered if I was expected to reciprocate and ask what had happened to him, even though, of course, I already knew. Before I could make up my mind, Big Dave said, “He was in an accident, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

  Little Dave waved his hand, looking uncomfortable. “It was a long time ago,” he said.

  This, of course, was like catnip to his partner. “You guys should go out!” said Big Dave.

  “Um . . . ,” I said as Little Dave rolled his eyes at me and mouthed the words Ignore him.

  Big Dave put down the light saber and plucked a Magic 8-Ball out of the basket. “Will Dave and Ruth find true love?” he asked, and shook the ball.

  I looked at Little Dave. “Does he do this with everyone?”

  “He does,” he replied. “Also, it’s a custom Magic Eight-Ball. Every side of the triangle says ‘Fuck yeah.’”

  “Don’t tell her that!” Big Dave pouted. He put down the Magic 8-Ball and picked up a pen and a pad. “Do you think there’s a show there? A dating service for accident survivors? Or maybe a supernatural show.” He studied me carefully. “Did the accident leave you with any kind of psychic powers?”

  “Mr. Sensitivity,” Little Dave said, and I shook my head and told him that, sadly, I was superpower-less. I added, “No parents, though. So I have that whole Disney-orphan thing going for me.”

  “Oh, no,” said Big Dave, looking stricken. “God. I’m so sorry. What is wrong with me?” He looked at his partner. “Why do you let me say these things?”

  “When have I ever been able to stop you?” The other Dave turned to me, still with a pleasant, welcoming look on his face. “How long have you lived in Los Angeles?”

  More questions followed, the two of them trading off. Where did I live? Did I like the neighborhood? Where had I grown up? Had I enjoyed my time on Girls’ Room? Was I working on scripts of my own? Finally, Big Dave arrived at the elephant in the room.

  “So what have you been up to for the past . . .” He glanced at my résumé, no doubt calculating the months between my departure from The Girls’ Room and my arrival in their office. “. . . little while?”

  There were any number of answers I could have given that would have been acceptable. I could have said something vague about a spec script, a screenplay, the dissolution of a writing partnership, or how I’d spent the time trying to put together a deal or rewriting someone else’s script, and it would have been enough to satisfy the Daves. Plenty of writers went months and years between full-time situations, and while it was obviously preferable to stay steadily employed, I wouldn’t be the first writer in Hollywood to have left one show and had to wait awhile for the next one.

  Big Dave had swapped his 8-Ball for three juggling beanbags, and he tossed them into the air, waiting for my answer. Little Dave was looking at me.

  “I’ve been writing classified ads,” I said.

  Big Dave widened his eyes. “Really?” Little Dave asked. It wasn’t a sarcastic West Coast really, it was a pleasant one, a tell-me-more-about-it invitation. “What kind?”

  “Have you two ever spent any time on the Internet dating sites?”

  Both men shook their heads. Big Dave cocked his thumb at his partner. “He prefers to order his hookers via text.” Little Dave made a shooing gesture, shaking his head.

  “Ignore him,” he said again. “Everyone else does.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” said Big Dave. “I’m just trolling you.” He turned to me, looking worried. “Is that what the kids say? Trolling? Is that a thing? It’s a thing, right?”

  “On the Internet,” I assured him. I was already aware of how much I wanted to keep talking to Little Dave, asking questions about his dog and his show and his life in a wheelchair. But the way he looked at me, that calm regard and impressed expression, reminded me, painfully and pleasantly, of Rob, and I was determined not to let any of that happen again. Don’t be the same fool twice, I thought.

  “So tell us,” Little Dave said. “What’s going on with Internet dating?”

  “Well, for starters, the websites are full of people who don’t know the difference between you’re with an apostrophe and your without one,” I said. “And everyone says the most generic things you can imagine.”

  “Likes funny movies, Mexican food, snuggling on the couch,” Big Dave supplied.

  “Likes a good sense of humor. Dogs and sunsets,” said Little Dave.

  “Exactly. I started up a business where I’d help kids write their college applications, and then someone asked if I could help with his dating profile. I’d meet people for coffee, do kind of an intake interview, ask them about themselves and what they were looking for, and then write them an ad.”

  “That’s genius,” said Big Dave.

  “That’s a show,” said Little Dave, even though we all knew that dating-service sitcoms and dramedies had failed on every network.

  “So what was your success rate?” asked Little Dave. “Percentage-wise?”

  I answered him honestly. “I really couldn’t say. I try to tell people that you can have the best bait in the world, and sometimes the fish just aren’t biting. But I found my grandma a boyfriend, so, you know, I consider the whole thing a win.” For some reason, I left out the fact that my business had also netted me a boyfriend. Just being professional, I told myself. No reason for them to know about my personal life.

  Little Dave was looking at me when his handheld beeped. He glanced down, pressed a button, and made a face. “The network says we can’t use lube.”

  Big Dave was indignant. “Who are they to tell us how to manage our sex lives?” He bent down, scooped up his juggling balls, and threw one savagely through the Nerf hoop that hung on the back of the office door.

  “We can’t say ‘lube,’” Little Dave explained. “In this week’s script. We need to come up with something else.” The two of them looked at each other, then at me. I knew, without being told, that everything up until now had been small talk. This was the real test, the only one, ultimately, that would matter.

  “Do you really think people want to hear the word ‘lube’?” Big Dave mused.

  “Personally, I do not,” said Little Dave.

  His partner grinned, baring oversize teeth. “Were you this much of a killjoy before you were a crip? I can’t remember.”

  “Always,” said Little Dave, apparently unoffended. “I’ve been a killjoy since birth. They wrote it under ‘gender’ on my birth certificate.”

  “What about love goo?” I suggested, and was rewarded with Little Dave’s almost inaudible laughter.

  “Passion slime,” Big Dave parried.

  “Or you could just go with the all-purpose ‘marital aid,’” I said. “Sometimes less is more.”

  “That’s very true,” said Little Dave, and nodded at his partner. “It’s news to this one, though.”

  “You know what I wish someone would write about?” I asked. “That gum that squirts in your mouth. You know, the stuff with the liquid center?” I’d been working on a bit about the ejaculating gum for weeks, scribbling lines about how the gum really didn’t know me well enough to be doing that in my mouth without my permission, and that if the manufacturers were smart, they’d have the first piece in every pack just dribble its contents politely down your chin, in the name of good manners and social contracts, and at least buy you a drink before that.

  “Squirting gum,” Big Dave mused toward the skylight. “I wonder if that’s funnier than lube.”

  “Anything is funnier than lube,” said Little Dave.

  “Lube’s pretty funny,” I said.

  “Not if you’ve been listening to the largest Jew in captivity make jokes abou
t it for ten days.” He looked at his partner. “And you shouldn’t talk about lube with female job candidates,” he said. “Hostile work environment. Remember?”

  Big Dave groaned and launched into the story of what had happened to the Two Daves’ last assistant. The tale began with the studio installing new Internet firewalls to ensure that nobody could access anything pornographic, or even remotely offensive, online while on the studio’s grounds. “So of course I went right to HR and told them that it was an awful policy; indeed, a dangerous policy,” Big Dave said. “I told them it was a writer’s job—not even a job, really; more like a calling, almost a holy obligation—to find the offensive, to seek it out, to wallow in it. I told them comedy’s just pain expressed as laughter.”

  “It was very moving,” Little Dave said. “I might have cried.” I smiled. I was beginning to realize that, whatever they did for the network, whatever they technically got paid for, this was their real job, bouncing jokes off each other, one Dave topping the other in an all-day comedy show.

  “So anyhow,” Big Dave continued. “It’s two weeks later, and I’m at a party, and I’m trying to show our assistant . . .”

  “Our young female assistant,” said Little Dave. “She had a name, too.”

  “Erica. See, I’m not a monster! Anyhow, I was showing Erica how terrible the new system is, so I pulled out my iPhone and I typed anal.”

  “But of course,” I said.

  Big Dave grimaced. He had, it emerged, been fully expecting that the iPhone would come back with the expected “restricted access” cartoon, with Foghorn Leghorn announcing, “I say, I say, I say, that website’s off-limits, podnah!” Instead, what popped up on the screen—in living color and high-resolution video—had prompted Erica to flinch, turn pale, and run out the door. Only a swift promotion had staved off the inevitability of a sexual-harassment complaint.